Juan Roberto's garden was his pride and joy. It was the pride and joy of the neighborhood,
too, and no one went hungry or without the simple pleasure of freshly cut
flowers. It was where he began each day and ended each night; tending to the
leaves and vines, pinching off a dead flower head, tamping the damp soil around
a new, fragile shoot to give it strength.
The soil and its gifts gave meaning to Juan Roberto's life. He was a
fortunate man and had been lucky in life; mostly in love, which to him made him
the luckiest man on earth.

His garden burst with perfectly groomed rows of juicy
peppers, tender spring asparagus, tiny artichokes. Walls were lost behind
trailing vines dripping with fragrant blossoms, towering gladioli, birds of
paradise, geranium and plumbago. Gently, he stroked the leaves of some of his
favorites; crushing a small blossom between his forefinger and thumb to release
the perfume of the jasmine, orange and lime tree blossoms, or rubbing the leaves
to free the oils. They were three of his favorites, but like children, he never
told them, so not to cause any animosity. He closed his eyes and breathed
deeply.

The late spring sun was at its most intense and while the
pots of lavender, the cacti and other succulents, the bougainvillea, even the
Spanish olive trees whose slender leaves glistened silver seemed to enjoy the
long days of heat, the palm fronds were turning gold and the greedy ivy, thirstier
than ever, sagged against the crumbling stone wall. The lilies, too, began to
wither and Juan Roberto ensured them that they would all have enough to drink.
He spoke softly to his plants, he never scolded. Even when they yellowed or
looked forlorn he spoke kindly because he believed it soothing and encouraged
good feelings between them. After all, he was known for his beautiful garden, and,
if his constant tending and gentle words contributed to the grace of beautiful
flowers, the deepest green leaves, succulent vegetables bursting with flavor,
he would forever be in their debt.

- Advertisement -

His neighbors, too, were grateful recipients of the bounty from
his garden and called him "Don" out of respect -- not only for his green thumb, but
for his generosity, and his advanced age. When they stopped by to collect the first
plump tomatoes and sweet carrots, sprigs of chamomile or lemon balm for brewing
tea or their altars, he encouraged them to offer thanks to the plants, which
they did without hesitation.

Only once did Juan Roberto lose his temper when ten year old
Jose Luis giggled when he was instructed to tell the red pepper plant that its
peppers were very delicious, muy rico. Young
Jose Luis giggled and rolled his eyes and made a voice like a little girl, "You're
so preeety, little red pepper! And so tasty too, yum!" mocking the pepper and
causing Juan Roberto to send him home without part of his mother's dinner. After that incident, however, Jose Luis was
always very polite whenever he was allowed back into his neighbor's garden and for
his effort, Juan Roberto would send him home with extra chickpeas or a chili
pepper for his mother's soup. "If you continue to respect the earth's bounty,
one day you may have your own garden and people will line up to pay their
respects." Young Jose Luis nodded and smiled shyly, and without encouragement
and when the Don wasn't looking, he whispered kind words to the chickpeas.

He had been especially tired today, but still he walked the five
streets to Don Martin's tienda to buy a few things his garden didn't provide,
but mostly though, to buy the thick squares of fresh pan de elote, the moist
cornbread, still warm, that was made daily by the fruit vendor's wife. Carrying
his groceries home the straw basket felt heavier than usual; his heart felt
even more burdensome than the basket that was laden with the heavy cornbread, so
he walked slowly, balancing his heart on the left and his basket on the right,
down familiar streets toward home. Poco a poco, he thought. Little by little.
No need to rush. The heat of the day had begun early and he needed to pace himself.
After all, he wasn't a young man.

- Advertisement -

Having washed the fresh fruits and vegetables from his
garden and the mangoes from his friend's tienda, he set them out to dry. Instead of putting them in the wooden bowl on
the small Equipale table, or straight into the refrigerator, he stopped to
admire the beauty of his first asparagus, leggy, bright green and tender. The
baby artichokes were like firm blossoms, the mango, a lovey apricot color, unblemished
and soft like a newborns skin. On a large platter he arranged the produce like
a still life, the bright colors exploding across his kitchen counter. If I was
an artist, he thought, I would paint this.

He went to bed early that night but couldn't sleep. He lay
in bed and watched the light change ever so slightly, listened to the church
bells ringing on the hour, the roosters, crickets that seemed to chirp all
night when the days grew longer and hotter.

On their wedding day she held three white calla lilies; one
for her, one for him, and one for their life together. Her shiny black hair was
adorned with a single sprig of jasmine. Finally, a thin ribbon of golden pink
light shown through his curtains. He was glad.

He climbed down the stairs and for the first time, held
tightly to the stair rail. In later years his life had been difficult, too much
pain and loss which now, mostly overshadowed the joy, except when he was in his
beloved garden. He had learned along the way there were some things in life
that he couldn't control or ever change. But he worried far too much, and he
wished he hadn't. For a moment, he felt regret, but let it go sooner than he
normally would. There was strong coffee to brew and he looked forward to the
cornbread sweetened with mesquite honey.

He took his breakfast outside as he did each morning and sat
in his usual spot in the sun. The neighbor's old cat walked the high ledge of
the stone wall and jumped down to see him, asking for a handout. He was
grateful to oblige and share his breakfast, breaking off a morsel of the
cornbread, a prime corner piece that had one of only a few large, plump corn
kernels that were always a surprise when found, smoky, moist and creamy. He
gave it to the ancient cat. She ate appreciatively and looked up at him and
smiled, licking her lips. I've lived even more lives than you, he thought.

After breakfast he admired all the tiny, fresh shoots; the
translucent bright green of new and tender life, always hopeful and aiming for
nothing but the sun, without a care in the world. All new life was hopeful, as it should be - that
precious naivete that is destined to fade with time. He lightly touched each
fragile shoot, just to let it know it was appreciated, but soon enough it would
find out that it needed more than that to grow.

- Advertisement -

He watered the plants, making sure to spray the leaves of
some and allowing the water to cup in crevices and curls so small birds and
bees could drink after the heat of the sun. He didn't even care if the wasps,
grasshoppers and crickets found the pools of water to their liking. He had become
soft as an old man; much softer than when he was young. He didn't mind.
Hardness was heavier to carry.

He wished he had spent more time in his garden, tending to
the flowers and plants, deadheading and pruning, been more diligent about
staking the tomatoes when they got spindly, feeling the soil between his
fingers and under his bare feet. It made him happy. The smell of damp, fertile
earth, the citrus blossoms after a summer rain, the lavender he would then dry
and place in small bowls near windows to discourage scorpions, all gave him
great pleasure. As a boy, he had once read a story about a lavender farmer in the South of France who
would do this, and when Juan Roberto became a man and began his own garden, he
had lavender enough to use against scorpions, and equally so, he loved the
woodsy smell that permeated his small house.

He smiled when he thought of the twigs of lavender she would
tuck in his clothes drawer or beneath a freshly laundered sheet. Once, when she
didn't know he was watching, he saw her crush a single white jasmine blossom
between her fingers and rub the oil behind her ears and gently down the space
between her breasts. Most times, though, he felt the memory was a painful thing
but today, it was comforting, like an old friend.

Jan Baumgartner is the author of the memoir, Moonlight in the Desert of Left Behind. She was born near San Francisco, California, and for years lived on the coast of Maine. She is a writer and creative content book editor. She's worked as a (more...)